


Inheriting the Earth

by anonymau5



Category: Maggot Boy
Genre: Brainwashing, Brief Mention of Euthanasia, Gen, Psychological/Emotional Trauma, Starvation, Torture, Vivisection, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:23:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymau5/pseuds/anonymau5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Owen Wright–a veritable force of nature, who tore through everything like a pint-sized hurricane, fundamentally untamable–had been tamed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inheriting the Earth

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: yeah this one's p. fucked up not gonna lie. =\ u ben warned brah. starts kind of abruptly and ends abruptly, because i wasn't trying to establish a storyline so much as i was just trying to sketch out an idea. characters belong to Jessica Gazzard and Eli Inman, respectively.

 

"I'm glad you three are here, actually!" She says excitedly, beckoning you into her office. She's all powder and paisley print, brightly-colored like boxed pastries, with her apricot hair wrapped up and folded meticulously into a loose and intricate bun at the nape of her neck. Her office, which you're familiar with, is frosted with a similar coat of glossy pinks and muted florals. "I have something I thought you'd be interested in seeing!"

You and Sam exchange what you think must be the same uneasy look, because Marianne catches the two of you and laughs: "Don't worry, it's a nice surprise." She ushers you in and presses the door closed behind you, watching in eager fascination as the three of you halt to a grinding stop, nearly slamming into one another. A chilling awe overtakes you, freezing up your legs as you _gape_ at the figure in the center of the room, hunching his shoulders, eyes trained on his feet. You think you may have meant to say something, but your voice catches in your throat.

"Isn't he _perfect?_ " Marianne gushes, trotting over to him. "Go on, Owen, say hello! You remember these three, don't you, dumpling?"

"Yes, Marianne," he answers evenly, his eyes still fixed to the surgical socks over his feet as he lifelessly acknowledges you: "Hello."

 

The three of you must look like idiots, your mouths hanging open, frozen where you stand. He's uncharacteristically inconspicuous, like this, wearing a loose-fitting set of surgical green disposable scrubs. The sharp, gamy stench that used to hang on his clothes and his hair is gone, now; you can smell the tang of antibacterial soap from a few feet away, but not much more. The greasy sheen has been scrubbed from his hair, and the stitches connecting the borrowed skin at the bottom of his face to the natural skin ending at his cheekbones have been masterfully reconstituted into clean, tidy trims of suture.

 

"He w–" Sam starts, before swallowing and trying again: "He was supposed to be _executed_ , I thought. I _saw_ the official reports, he was put to death _three months ago_ – _"_

"Oh," Marianne laughs, waving it off as she circles behind Owen. " _That?_ A silly PR stunt to sate any lingering panic the public may have had–and to keep the insurance companies at arm's length, naturally. In reality, he's been unofficially gifted to me for the purposes of undead study, as have a number of laboratories on the premises." She stops, rearranging some stray tufts of hair at the back of his head. " _Hm_. I think it might be time for another haircut, sweetie pie."

The three of you remain perfectly still, hyper-vigilant of sound and sudden movement, unconvinced he'll stay in this docile trance for much longer. Marianne studies the three of you, delicately tucking a loose wisp of hair behind her ear. 

"You're not convinced, are you?" She asks cooly, not seeming offended in the least. After another beat of silence, she smiles, sauntering over to her desk and pulling open a drawer.

Owen remains where he is, still staring at the floor. You watch him with wide eyes, trying to make yourself believe what you're seeing.

"Here you go, honey," she coos gently, returning to Owen's side and crouching down to his eye level. She holds out a surgical scalpel, clutching it by its blade so that Owen is free to grab it by its handle. Chainey and Sam shout, starting forward to stop her, to ask what in hell she's doing, but she holds up one delicate hand, forcing them to a stop. "Go on," she says quietly, using her other hand to lift Owen's chin so his eyes meet hers. "You can take it, if you want it. I won't stop you."

You can see his adam's apple bobbing, like he wants to say something, but doesn't. He keeps his eyes trained on hers, and a long moment passes where no one does or says _anything_. It's like watching a dangerous magic trick that only Marianne knows the secret to, and everyone else not savvy to it is left cringing at the disastrous possibilities.

The terrified shake of his head is so small and so subtle that you think only you and Marianne saw it, and that's only because you were so fixated on the petrified look in his eyes. She smiles, and he drops his gaze back down to the floor.

 

You would have felt a lot better had he taken it, you realize, and all at once you're nauseated.

 

"He wouldn't throw away months of hard work like that. Not after everything we've accomplished. Would you, Owen?"

"No, Marianne."

"I can't believe it," Chainey says, rubbing the back of his head and staring, stupefied, at the boy. "You _cured_ him."

"I appealed to his reason, is all I did," Marianne says, nevertheless giddy with the fruit of her efforts. "Owen's a smart little boy, he knows there's no point in trying to run from something that we both know he'll always just end up back at. We've been down that road too many times to count–the violent outbursts, the escape attempts–and I think he realized that cooperation is a far more advantageous route than dissent."

 

_"STOP," you sob in another life, a hundred thousand years ago. "PLEASE, FUCK, PLEASE–"_

_"Oh Davey," she sighs, watching you with sympathetic eyes. "Please don't cry, dear. I don't want you to cry."_

_She pulls something from you–and it doesn't hurt, but you can feel it leave. Something red and slick she stole from your core catches the fluorescent light of the operating room and you see it and you wail. You want your mom and dad, you want your bedroom, you want to kick a soccer ball again, you want nothing to do with any of this._

 

"Is there a problem, Davey?" Marianne asks, ripping you from the memory: she's all powder-sweet innocence, laying it on thick.

 _There's definitely a problem,_ you think. A much bigger problem than Owen Wright.

"How did you get him like this, Marianne?" You ask, trying to dispel the shudder from your voice, never taking your eyes off Owen's face. You realize that may have sounded a little too accusatory, so you amend it by adding: "I mean, how did you get him to… y'know, like…" _Obey_. "…chill out?"

"Oh!" She laughs, seeming relieved. Everyone tenses up. Nobody likes it when Marianne laughs. "Well, it took a long while, and a _lot_ of patience."

"I can imagine," Sam agrees, fascinated. She stares at Owen, wide-eyed, like she's not sure what to think. "He's so different, though. It's like he's not even…" _There_ , you finish for her in your mind. _It's like he's not even there_.

"All it came down to in the end was the proper application of disciplinary techniques, really!" Marianne answers, bubbly and sweet. "Similar to how you would teach _any_ little boy to behave! Amplified, perhaps, in some regards, but similar in principle: reward for good behavior and punishment for bad! He's just an absolute doll, now."

"Punishment and reward, then?" Chainey asks, sounding surprised. Everyone seems a little more at ease, now that Owen's been in the room for a full five minutes and hasn't gone at anyone's leg; Chainey goes ahead and sits himself down on the arm of the couch. "I wouldn't have thought it was that simple. Guess that's why I'm not a doctor… What'd you do, anyway?"

You can't stop staring at Owen, even when Marianne speaks. She reaches down to ruffle his dusty red hair adoringly, and you can't banish the image of a glamorous upscale woman petting her glorified dog from your mind. Your stomach goes flimsy when you see how _empty_ his eyes are, an emptiness that only you and he know, and _intimately_ so.

"It was difficult, I'll concede! Mapping out an effective long-term plan based on a repertoire of reward-and-punishment-based applications seemed like an impossible task given that awares are incapable of feeling pain as humans understand it. I'll spare you the gory details, of course, suffice it to say that virtually all applications intended for punishment were, for the most part, ineffective." She smiled wide. She has a beautiful smile, an _objectively_ beautiful smile. Something primal in your gut growls thick and low and it's all you can do to suppress the urge to pounce and her and tear out her tongue from the back of her throat. " _Then_ we talked about _food_ , didn't we Owen?"

He's quiet. You're quiet. You're not even sure if Sam or Chainey has said anything and even if they did you couldn't bring yourself to care. Some blurred din of sound from your left ear indicates that, yes, Chainey's asked her something else. You try to pull yourself from this ugly trance, this tunnel of sight that ends at Owen's empty expression.

"That's right. It happened by accident, really–we had done so much testing I had unintentionally skipped one of his feeding sessions. He was shaking, sweating–suffering a reaction strikingly similar to that of a morphine addict in withdrawal, or an alcoholic. I'm sure both of you boys–" She's speaking to you, now, you realize. "–know what it's like to go without food."

You do know. You remember the pain, like a rubber band cinched around your digestive tract, sending waves of need and misery radiating through your torso and out through your extremities. Depressing. Frightening. Caustic. Suffocating. Nothing at all like human hunger. Is this what she's been doing? _Starving_ him?

"So you withheld food," Sam says, absorbed in the science of it. To her, this must seem like a reasonable, ethical alternative to administering torturous punishments like electric shock or mutilation. She doesn't know. And you don't blame her for not knowing. You don't blame Chainey, either. No one understands what it's like to be in Marianne's grasp. Nobody but you.

Well. Nobody but you and _him_ , now.

"Yes!" She answers excitedly, clasping her hands together, like she's found the cure for fucking cancer. "Being able to study Owen's reactions to food was a fascinating and enriching experience–for _both_ of us, I think! The boys already know this, of course–as do you, Samantha, I'm sure–but I'd had no idea of the genuine extent of the euphoric response directly produced by feeding! Pupil dilation, salivation, even some very mild sexual excitement, just from having food _in sight,_ especially when deprived. Being able to study Owen has taught me so much. Together, we worked on decreasing his food intake, and established a stringent reward system wherein good behavior merits feeding! From then on, his training and his cooperation became exponentially more bearable–I'd even say enjoyable! Don't you agree, cupcake?" She ruffles Owen's hair, again, and only you can see how he cowers when she touches him.

"Yes, Marianne."

 _It doesn't even sound like him,_ you think, horrified. It sounds like someone electronically manufactured a computerized simulation of his voice, but with all the vigor and personality strained out of it. The way he spoke was inorganic and static. His eyes were lidded, his expression lukewarm, the skin under his eyes dark and loose. Owen Wright–a veritable force of nature, who tore through everything like a pint-sized hurricane, fundamentally untamable–had been tamed.

"So can he _think_?" You ask her, clenching and unclenching your fists. "Or is he as good as Mindless, now?"

She blinks at you, hesitating–the only indication that she's been caught off-guard.

"Of course he can think, Davey!" She answers cheerfully, but cautiously. You know Marianne's tone better than anybody, and you know when she's carefully choosing her words. Maybe it's because you _look_ as angry as you _feel_ , and she's trying to talk you off the edge. You're not really sure. "What a waste of an excellent mind that would be! He's a brilliant, creative boy, and so well-read. We just needed to repurpose his intellect, get him to use his impressive ingenuity to achieve something other than violent and self-serving ends. He's still fully capable of reason."

It's a perfectly sculpted diplomatic answer, prudent but buoyant, with all the sharp edges shaved off, and it's a _lie_.

"Go on, sweetheart," Marianne prods affectionately, intending to prove his capability for reason, like she's read your mind. She runs her hands through his hair, and his eyes flutter closed as he leans into it. "Tell them what we did this morning."

"Marianne gave me a book," he answers, his voice meek and even, sad and quiet, nothing at _all_ like the nasally snigger of the Owen Wright you knew. He still keeps his eyes down. "A Woolf anthology, she's one of my favorites."

"He just ate it up," Marianne squeaks, kissing his temple like a proud, adoring mother would her son. "I've never met a child with such an appetite for reading. Together we decided that one of his new rewards would be new books! Not that he even needs reward, now, he's always on his best behavior." _'Together,'_ you scoff internally, _like Owen had any say in the matter._

That's something else Marianne does, pretends like you and she are partners, peers, _friends_ even. You remember her chatting animatedly about Nortern Italy in springtime and silver needle white tea and the antics of especially bizarre customers at her favorite local bakery while she pared a sample slice from your disembodied duodenum.

 

Fuck. _Fuck_. This wasn't the plan. You didn't know, when Marianne had captured him–you thought that they were going to compensate her with _money_ , with the renewal of her surgical license. _Fuck_. You didn't know that the same boy Marianne was hunting was slated to be _her_ _prize_. You didn't know, when Owen was being carted off to the institute, that he was being carted to the laboratory, to Marianne's fucking _torture chamber_. You thought they were just going to _kill_ him, rid the city of him. _That_ was the plan everybody was okay with. You were positively _giddy_ with that plan, actually. He _deserved_ to die. You were happy that he was going to die, everybody was, even _he_ was. He always seemed to understand that his was a story with no happy ending, and he was at peace with it. He was a sociopath, and a smart one at that: he didn't expect to inherit the Earth. Lazaro _told_ you that Owen was slated to be executed upon apprehension, but he lied to you–he _lied_ to you because he knew, the _fucker_ , he _knew_ you wouldn't let anyone go through what you went through at the business end of Marianne Sutton's scalpel.

Not even Owen. No one deserved a life as Marianne Sutton's plaything. Owen had inherited an agony that _used_ to be yours, and because it was yours you feel a responsibility for him. You never thought anything on God's earth could make you empathize with Owen Wright, the boy who traumatized your baby brother, who hunted your best friend and nearly killed the girl you adored.

 

Owen had inherited Marianne. Maybe you're so disturbed way down deep inside yourself because you see a future that could have just as easily been yours. 

 

"In any case, we had originally intended to head down to the labs to do a couple cultures, but… well, I always get sidetracked, don't I, Owen?" She turns to her charge, laughing. "Blonde moments, I guess! I just couldn't let the three of you go without seeing Owen's progress, I knew you'd be interested! Come on, Owen, let's get to the lab before that silly intern breaks another one of my beakers." She trots back over to the door, holding it open for the four of you; you force yourself to move, following Chainey and Sam, making a point to keep your gaze anywhere but on Owen. Marianne gently stops you at the door, turning to your friends. "Just give Jeremiah and I a couple seconds, loves, would you?"

Chainey frowns, looking at you. He's smart enough and knows you well enough to know that depositing you into Marianne's grip for any longer than is strictly necessary is a mistake in itself. She looks at you pleadingly, and you nod sternly to Chainey, who crosses his arms and steps back–evidently as indication that he's afforded Marianne permission to address you alone. He seems to make it clear he doesn't intend to go anywhere else, though, because he makes a point of leaning against the wall of the corridor outside her office, shoving his hands in his pockets, resolved to make sure you're alright. You forget what a good friend Chainey is, sometimes.

She closes the door to her office: it's just the three of you, now, and you hope she'll make this quick, because you need to go throw up, and soon.

"Davey, I just wanted to tell you how _proud_ I am of how you've handled all this," she coos in a balmy maternal purr, taking your hands into hers. "I know it must be so hard to have to relive that day, and I was so worried that showing you Owen's progress might trigger some emotional reaction for you but–" _God, she's not feigning any of this,_ you think as you watch her smile adoringly, clasping your hands tight. _This crazy bitch really means every word._ "–but I was so impressed with how maturely you handled this, despite everything that's happened in the past. I hope that, now that Owen and I have come to an understanding and we've put that chapter behind us, you and I can start over…"

You grind your teeth so hard you're surprised they don't shatter.

"Of course, Marianne." What else can you say? It's not like you have the faculties to free him, or the freedom to euthanize him. Any outburst will just land you into trouble with Noah and Lazaro, and after Lazaro's shameless double-dealing, who knows what he'd do with you if you pissed him off enough? Maybe Owen's future could still be yours.

She makes a squealy sound of elation, throwing her arms around you.

 _"You have no idea how happy that makes me!"_ She gushes, pecking you on the cheek before she pulls away, alight with animated elation. "I just felt so terrible for so long. I only ever had the best intentions for you, Jeremiah–for Owen, too!"

 

It's the mention of his name that prompts you to turn around: he's still there at the center of the room, his shoulders still hunched, his dark eyes still fixed on his socks. You watch him with an amorphous, unidentifiable sadness that you know he doesn't deserve.

"My brother's got your cat," you tell him on a whim, and he stirs, his eyes meeting yours. You immediately break eye contact with him, doing him the first and last and _only_ favor you'll _ever_ do him by pretending not to notice the wetness in his eyes. "I can't imagine you'd want her in the lab, or in his cell with him," you tell Marianne. "But maybe I'll bring her in, you guys can figure out what to do with her. She misses him, I think."

"Oh, that would be wonderful!" Marianne chirps, positively elated. "Owen, you never told me you had a cat! I think that would be so _good_ for him, to see an old face! Would you mind dropping her off with the interns, Jeremiah? Could I trouble you?"

"It's fine. We were trying to find her a good home, anyway. Might as well bring her back to her original owner." You feel a terrible numbness settle at the base of your stomach, sowing seeds. You stick your hands in your pockets, heading for the door.

" _Ah_!" Marianne stops you with a hand to your chest, and the contact makes you reel. You try not to make it obvious. "Hold it! Owen, is there anything you want to _say_ to Davey?"

You can't make yourself look at him, but it doesn't make a difference in the end, because you can hear the moisture and the tremor in his voice when he says: _"Thank you._ "

 

"Don't thank me," you laugh, bitter and curt, as you force the door open with shaky hands. "For God's sake, _don't thank me._ "

 

He inherited this from _you_ , after all.


End file.
